


Associations

by AlyxStar



Category: Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8238125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyxStar/pseuds/AlyxStar
Summary: Learning his letters, one thought at a time.





	1. A is for Apple

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: As already stated in previous works, I don't own Dragon Age II or any of its content. I wish I did, but I don't.

It is the firm resistance of the fruit in his hand, the explosion of flavour on his tongue when he bites through to the flesh beneath. Sometimes the juice runs down his fingers when he cuts an apple into small chunks, quick to lick it away again and start savouring the treat.

He does not like the red apples with how often they turn to mush in his mouth, remembering thin fingers clamping hard around his jaw and forcing him to swallow slices to demonstrate his absolute obedience.

It is the green ones he favours, sharp and crisp and delicious and five are his first purchase when he starts earning his share with Hawke and her ragtag group of companions. Just over two years later green apples wait in the fruit bowl, nestled innocently amongst the crimson grapes Hawke loves to pop in her mouth by the handful, munching loudly on them and eyes twinkling in merriment.


	2. B is for Bethany

She is the Hawke he will never know.  The one with a bone-deep fear of her own power.

Her name alone, one innocent word, is enough to turn Gamlen's house silent as the grave.  Leandra's grief a poorly hidden thing, Carver storming out in a fit of anger and pain, and Amelie, the eldest Hawke, on her face there is nothing but guilt.

She is who Carver speaks of most after a few drinks have loosened his tongue.  Laughing and crying in equal measure when his older sister is not around to see, reminiscing of days gone by when he as a younger lad would pull her pigtails and hide one of her boots before she was due to go to the market with their mother.  That one time he was in a fist fight, and losing, and she tossed the larger boys over the fence with a wave of her hand and tears streaking her face.

The softer of the two sisters, her practice of the arcane arts focusing mainly on healing and protection.   _Not that it did her any good, in the end_.  A casual remark, but one that brings Carver up short as soon as the words leave his mouth, going pale and smile abruptly vanishing.  Fenris does not comment, only offers some more wine and a losing hand of cards.

The reason Amelie first killed - a Templar's cruel hand dragging a small girl by her dark curls, kicking and crying for help,  _heathen_ and  _witch_ insults thrown at one so young, too young to experience such hatred.  An older girl sprinting from the barn with hands lit red, unseen until she is upon the Templar's back and ripping her fingers bloody on metal, screaming and grappling with his helmet until he releases his captive and falls to his knees.  In the few minutes it took for their father to respond to the racket, staff in hand and ready for  _war_ , little Amelie had all but cooked the man in his armour, hands still violently hot and restrained fire turning sea-blue eyes vividly bright.

A name whispered almost reverently, a different kind of tear falling from Carver's eyes as his lips touch the delicate forehead of his newborn daughter, so tiny in his ridiculously large hands.  Amelie leans in close, cooing at her little niece as she passes him on her way to tend to Merrill and ease the strain of childbirth with gentle healing and warm water.  Fenris eyes the babe suspiciously, expecting her to start bawling at the top of her lungs much like his own daughter did to announce her arrival to the rest of the world, but there is only a yawn as he tucks the stray corner of her blanket back over her legs, offering a smile when Carver cradles his little bundle close and  _finally_ shows signs of relaxing.

And maybe, just maybe, the little one's namesake is the reason this all went so smoothly, is in the room with them now and watches with that sunshine smile of hers.


	3. C is for Cold

Kirkwall is a cruel, hard city.

In the summer it does not rival the heat of Minrathous, where slaves are dressed in little more than decorative leather scraps and the Magisters are adorned in the finest of smooth silks.  It does not rival Seheron's humidity either, where sweat is one's second skin more than clothing, but the temperature is... tolerable for the most part.  In winter, however, Fenris grows to absolutely detest the entire city.  From the cobblestones that leach what little warmth is left from his toes during the late night attacks on raiders and slavers operating from Lowtown, to the mist of his breath in the frigid morning air by the docks, stench of fish clogging his nostrils and souring his mood further.  Hightown is little better with the winds gusting through and whipping at the cloth coverings of the main square's stalls, the same winds that whistle through the mansion and plague his sleeping hours with shivers.

Winter is in the people, too.  Just a glance into the eyes of a Templar briefly without their helmet shows it, and if Fenris is to compare it to something it would be the flash of cold when steel punctures flesh, before spilled blood can lend heat to the weapon.  In the eyes of Mages, too, the ones not yet Tranquil or flinching at meaningless Templar gestures, the ones with hardened hearts and contracts written in blood for demons to use.  He does not sympathise with them, he  _cannot_ , not when they could turn into the next Magister, and yet... and  _yet_.

It catches up to him, too, eventually.

" _My little Fenris_."


	4. D is for Dalliance

He does not take Isabela seriously at first. Flirtatious jokes and borderline improper bodily contact just seems to be her nature, as natural to her as stony silence and heavy swordwork is to him.

She focuses her sultry grins on him far more often than Anders or Caver - though he suspects Hawke has something to do with her halted pursuit of the latter - and chooses  _ his _ lap as her seat at Wicked Grace more nights than not. He moves her, of course, his discomfort in the lack of personal space more to do with her being just shy of a complete stranger more than anything else. She is an attractive woman, and a feisty one at that, and perhaps a night or two with her wouldn’t  _ hurt _ but…

He refuses her advances, brutal in honesty that would likely offend or upset another woman. A casual fling is not what he wants. He doesn’t want a relationship either. Only some time to… find himself, discover who it is behind the lyrium brands and scars now that there is no leash about his neck.


	5. E is for Endure

 

Slaves in Minrathous, never mind Tevinter in general, were not meant to  _last_.

A child born to the leash and whip would last perhaps until teenage years before death by the _correction_ of rallying against such unfair treatment, the abusive words, the brutal touch.  Too often he's seen the shadowed eyes of younger ones dart down and away from the sweeping gaze his position as Master's bodyguard allows, the same eyes he will see vacant and lifeless only weeks later, bodies cast aside like broken trash.

Even his Master went through slaves as often as his satin and silk changed colours.  He lost count of the cooks after the fifth one mysteriously dropped to the ground while preparing a meal.  The serving boys and girls were so easily spooked it was hardly a surprise to find them at odd angles in the shadows of the estate, cowering from some blow or another that had permanently silenced their pleas.  The other bodyguards, too, sent out to a fight skewed in the opponent's favour, sent to their doom.  He would watch those fights impassively, Master's hand on the small of his back and fingers tracing along the lyrium brands, sickly churn of his magic drawing flickers through every whorl and flourish and scalding through his bones.

Only Fenris seemed strong enough to survive, even when his body gave up.

_Silence_ he would be ordered, and silence he would become even with the lash of whip.  His back would arch and his fingers would dig into the wooden pole they'd deemed fit to chain him to, rising up onto his toes with the faint whistle of retreat.  Another lash, another jerking protest from his muscles and air rushing from his lungs in one massive gust.   _Silence_.  Even when the bruising morphed to angry red welts.  Even when his skin split open and coursing blood made his footing unsteady.   _Silence_.  Even when his strength gave out and he was forced to his knees, nails snapped and blood on his fingertips, too, where he still gripped, wrists gone raw and painful from chafing.   _Silence_.  Even when he could not bring his legs up to defend his stomach from the blows, too weak to so much as flinch when he was marked from neck to ankle while the spectators praised his absolute obedience.  Even when his hair was matted and his bottom lip a ruined mess, servants dragging him between them back to Master's quarters to be cleaned up and bandaged, to be  _arranged_ like a little treat.

_Kill_ and he would grapple with the insolent whelp who answered his Master with less respect than deserved, fight ending after several slams of his head to the curb.   _Kill_ and he would draw his sword against unarmed civilians, paint stalls with their blood and hand over the choice items of merchandise that escaped the impromptu cleansing.   _Kill_ and he would force his hand into the chest of another, quieting the lyrium so he became flesh and bone again, splaying his fingers out wide to cause maximum pain and panic before seizing them around the fluttering heart and  _pulling_.   _Kill_ and he would spill the blood of ten, twenty, seventy, as many as his Master ordered, until his magic was bloated on the power of their lives cut short.

Slaves were not meant to  _last_ , but Fenris?  He was made to  _endure_.


	6. F is for Freedom

 

He can stay awake until the birds start singing and the rising sun paints the sky in red and orange and touches the feather-light clouds with lilacs and pale pinks.

He can sleep in an extra ten minutes if he so chooses, no displeased voice to wake him with a shock and send him scuttling on hands and knees and begging his Master's pardon for such insolence.

He can eat when he wants, whatever he wants.  No more stale bread or cold soup.  No more  _fish_.  A green apple for breakfast, the occasional sandwich for lunch, and some stew from the Hanged Man for dinner (though he never asks what meat is being served, doesn't want to know), or the food Leandra Hawke sometimes sends in a basket.

He can practice his forms whenever he wants, learn the full extent of the abilities granted to him by the lyrium, push his boundaries and be able to  _rest_ afterwards.

He could throw away his sword, if he wanted, replace it with something more suited to slender hands.  Daggers, perhaps.  Duel with Isabela by the Chantry at night and retire to his residence for wine and reading by candlelight.  But the sword is an extension of him now, and he cannot read.  Will probably never read.

He can choose which "adventures" to join, when and where Hawke will have his assistace and  _for how long_.  Can refuse a job offer if he wishes.

He can even  _insult_ the nobles looking down their noses at him!  Though he much prefers to smile at them in that sharp-toothed way of his that has them scurrying along just a little bit faster, mutters of "beast" following them.  Beast is better than knife-ear.   _Beasts_ are the creatures men are terrified of.  Rather fitting for one such as he, is it not?

**Choice**.  That is true freedom.  To do or not to do, to think or not to think, to say or not to say.

Choice.  It is something presented to him when the Chantry explodes and Kirkwall is thrown down the path of absolute ruin.  It is something any other would  _debate_ when Hawke - Amelie - plants herself between Anders and Meredith and declares her stand against the Templars.  It is something he must decide when she makes her own choice, to stand against the Templars, to fight a losing battle, to  _die_ for an ungrateful city and after the actions of a man too far gone to save.

Choice.  It is something already decided for him in the turn of his lover's body and her frantic sprint.  It is something already decided for him when he darts through the Hawke estate in phantom form, plucking his daughter from her bedroom as the very foundations creak in warning of imminent collapse.  It is something already decided for him when he is forced to trust Merrill and Sebastian with her safety on Isabela's ship,  _just in case_.

He is a free man.  He can decide his own life, his own fate.

And if it must end, then it will be against the endless tide of Templars and Meredith's insanity to keep his loved ones safe.

 


	7. G is for Gift

It is the glide of soft leather under his fingertips, an unmarked cover staring back at him, empty pages held in its clasp and waiting for the secrets only he can tell.  It is the grin much like the kind he would find on a cat's face after stuffing its tummy full of canary, the puff of laughter from between painted lips as he struggles to find the words to convey his gratitude, as he wonders if any are  _adequate_ enough to convey such a thing.  It is the kiss Isabela leaves upon his cheek and her quiet murmur that she has no desire for coin, a thing for him alone to do with as he wishes.

It is his frustration boiling over with his childish scrawl in comparison to Hawke's elegant script, tucking the journal into his bookcase to be ignored and eventually forgotten.  It is stumbling across the sight of Hawke playing with a litter of Mabari pups, laughing as they lick at her face and falling under scrabbling paws and incessant wiggling, wanting to freeze that moment and cement it somewhere, an unspoken treasure to survive the ages.

It is the first delicate bloom of romance between Carver and Merrill, the flush of pink to his cheeks when she rests her head on his shoulder and her hand on his thigh, weary after battle and lured into drowsy waters by the salt in the air and the whisper of wind through grass and leaves alike.  It is a desire to remind them of this moment when they wonder how he knew, however many years in the future.

It is the easy laughter following one of Varric's tales, the slosh of drinks over careless fingers and the triumphant gleam in Isabela's eyes as she brandishes another winning (cheating) hand, the even trade of curiosity and confusion between Merrill and Sebastian over their food and many questions, the friendly sniping between Anders and Carver, a front for their cooperation in stealing mages from the Gallows right under Meredith's nose, the glint of a coin as it rolls back and forth over Hawke's fingers, the same coin she flicks to him as payment for the drink she steals from its place by his wrist.

It is the first dozen pages filled with shaky lines and curves and angles that don't amount to much, shading too light in some places and too dark in others.  It is the gradual swell of confidence as he takes time to study his subject, as he builds the images up one by one into something much greater, something he can pride himself in, something he can return to and polish up if the fancy ever strikes him.  Something completely and utterly  _his_.

It is the face to match a name, the plant to match a purpose, the building to match a job, the spell to match a mage, the expression to match a conversation, and the moment to match a memory.

It is his journal, filled with life in Kirkwall

It is the gentle curve of Hawke's mouth in the first morning rays on the last page, the point of their beginning, of when his heart became hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm not dead to DA just yet. I surprise even myself by returning to this fic XD


	8. H is for Hands

Branded by magic, they are the shackles of a slave.

Lined with scars, they are the weapons of a fighter.

Stained in blood, they are the tools of a killer's trade.

They are capable of causing hurt and suffering and death, with them he can tear someone's very soul from their bodies in a burst of lyrium light and a blaze of white-hot pain across his flesh.

He does not know  _gentle_ with them, he does not know  _soft_ , has often felt the crack of a whip on the backs of them and the snap of steel around them and the blinding pressure curling tighter and tighter with his Master's ire.  He has known heat so severe he's  _watched_ the skin blister and burst and blacken straight down to the bone, he's felt ice rip layers of flesh clean off in time to Hadriana's laughter.  Scalded, poisoned, slashed and clubbed and skewered until he's feared the use of his fingers forever lost.

But they are his.  They are whatever he wants to make them.  Quick as a lightning strike in plucking food from plates for the loyal mabari, light as a feather with just a  _scrape_ of nail for the head scratches the canine adores so much.  Immovable like the steel he wields, certain and sure and  _rooted_ in his test of strength against another swordsman, frightened children cowering in his shadow, waiting for his signal to run as fast as they can back to the Alienage, back to their parents.  Steady and calm on the ladder Donnic balances on, holding the man's perch steady as he slaps around for the ring's box, hidden higher than any of his siblings think to look when they visit.  Uncertain in the hold of quill to parchment, the pull and push of ink across the page in penmanship shaky at best and illegible at worst.  Gentle, apologetic, as lined fingers settle upon Merrill's shoulder, persistent in their pressure until she turns from the mirror that has cost her so much, delicate body crumpling in on itself with a shudder, so much  _pain_ , so much sorrow, and he has been too harsh in his words with her.  Slow, methodical,  _careful_ as he curls his palm around the flame to protect it from the drafts always breezing through the Chantry, lighting one candle and another and another, for the father and sister Hawke he missed in his passage through Lothering, for Leandra and an end to her suffering, for Bartrand and a recovery far on the horizon, for Anders and whatever darkness he keeps within his breast, for Carver and his struggles, for Merrill and her grief, for Sebastian's family, for Aveline's late husband, for Hawke and the burden she shoulders, for the mother he never knew, the sister he fears is a ruse.

Scarred, brandied, bloodied.  But these hands are his, and they do as  _he_ tells them, now.  They become what he wills them.

And never again will they be the mindless weapons of a dog brought to heel.


	9. I is for Ink

He doesn't spot them at first, the little additions to his desk.  Not for lack of attention but rather... distance.  He has had no need of a study before, nor a writing desk, or parchment or quills or ink pots.  He was not literate, a dependency Danarius viciously guarded, secrecy he preferred but rarely boasted.  What could a bodyguard possible do with letters he could not decipher?  What news could he spread to the other slaves, how could he partake in a revolt, when the standard means of communication was lost to him?

So he avoids the hulking bookcases and the dust caked upon their shelves, the books and papers stacked in their hold, the desk and its rocky imbalance from the chunk gouged out of the back leg.  Until Hawke.  Until the reading lessons that have him flitting from shelf to shelf on the hunt for any material that will prove useful and, later, any news of a sister left behind in Minrathous.  Until  _reading_ turns to  _writing_ and foreign shapes take meaning under unpracticed fingers, until he learns the delicate clasp required for a smooth flow of ink, the smear of it on the side of his hand when he's forgotten to use a blotter, the absolute  _mess_ charcoal will make of his fingers and palm and cheek when he swipes at it after blowing out a candle too low and sputtering to work with any longer, the child-like errors, the awful scrawl he cannot stomach when laid side by side to Hawke's ridiculous loops and curls.

 _Patience_ , Hawke says.   _Practice_ , Varric says, like he has has time for it, replenishing his paltry stock of parchment whenever it runs low to his scribbles and frustration.  And that's when he notices them, the innocent little pots and their stopper tops, darkness smeared across their innards, a substance he identifies as meant for writing only after he's cautiously dipped the tip of his finger into it and brushed the pad of his thumb over the resulting smear, swiped the familiar lines and curves of his name at the back of the journal Isabela gifted him.

Ink.  Lots of it.  Plenty to continue his studies when Hawke packs up her bag and takes her leave in the late evenings, folded up in that rickety chair and leaning so close to the parchment that his nose is almost upon it, thinking such proximity will aid in learning the alphabet's secrets.  Poor posture is rewarded only with an aching back by the time the moon casts her cool light through his windows, of course, but it is the effort, the _drive_ to learn that counts, he thinks.

* * *

It comes in all colours, he finds, with the help of crushed powders and plants and imported dyes.  A simple, insignificant delight to prowl the stalls and purchase for himself some more quills and plenty more pots to line one of the shelves he clears of books in need of burning for the knowledge they boast of blood magic and necromancy.  All manner of blues and greens, reds and purples and  _orange_ of all colours, like the burning shade of autumn that graces the branches of Kirkwall's trees in the last of the sun's warmth before the snow and bone-chill roll in.  He arranges them by preference, samples every single one in his cautious letter to Hawke and his note of thanks to Varric, and feels heat settle in his cheeks when she studies his collection almost a full month after with a smile curving her lips.

Years later, after he has withdrawn from her and returned once more, they are the same colours waiting for him throughout the mansion, torn parchment stashed here and pinned there and tucked under his pillow, all with little messages for his eyes alone.  Some happy, some lovely, some supportive.

Later still, when she departs for the Inquisition, when he fears for her safety and learns of her cage in the Fade, her written words in his favourite colours of old are the only safeguard for a fraying sanity and aching heart.

_You promised a goodbye before your departure of this world, and I hold you to your word.  Return to me.  Please, Hawke._

The parchment blackens and curls in the fire, and he can only hope the smoke carries his plea to her, wherever she has fallen beyond his reach.


End file.
